


Ravens, Circling

by mackiedockie



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Historical References, Libraries, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21952834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie
Summary: The Watcher Chronicles document the complicated lives of ancient Immortals.   They also have complicated deaths.  Duncan had to learn the hard way.  After Carter Wellan's death, Richie is still learning.  But when things get complicated for Methos...he's got Joe's number.
Comments: 36
Kudos: 78
Collections: Highlander Secret Santa (ShortCuts) 2019





	Ravens, Circling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiny_ninja](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tiny_ninja).



> This work would not have been completed without the invaluable help of adabsolutely and our amiga Anita. They hold up the light and illumine the way when the dark corners of the imagination confuse my compass. Thank you!

Ravens, Circling

HL Shortcuts 2019 

*********Joe's Sanctum*******

Joe was taking a break in his office to work on the books when his private phone rang. “It’s Joe. Talk to me.” All he could hear at first was crackling static, then a cool, distant subcontinental accent asked, “....from Adam Pierson. Will you accept the charges?”

“Joe, say you’ll accept!” Methos called out in the background crackling.

Against his better judgement, Joe accepted the reverse charge. “Where are you? You completely dropped off the map. I even checked Borneo.”

“Bali.”

“Whatever. Seriously, you called the bar collect?”

“You didn’t answer your mobile phone,” Methos complained.

“The Watchers confiscated my Nokia,” Joe grumped. “I was worried about you, dammit.”

“I’m alive! You’re alive! It’s a win-win! I’m in Upper Mustang. The Chinese are building a highway over the pass. Paving paradise at 16,000 feet, Joe. You should come and do a protest concert.”

“What, in an iron lung? You’re calling collect from the top of Tibet!” Joe gripped the receiver, since he couldn’t reach through the phone wires to grab Methos and shake him silly.

“From the tea shop across from the monastery in Jomsom, actually,” Methos corrected. “I’m persona non grata in Tibet right now. I was between a yak, a sky burial, and a very humorless Chinese patrol, when a Tibetan nun I knew in a previous reincarnation walked over the pass, and…”

“Collect. To my bar. On an unsecured line,” Joe reminded, before Methos started a full on saga. “From the one public phone in Upper Mustang. This is going on your bar tab.”

“Wait until you see my doctor bill,” Methos warned, bringing Joe up short. “Speaking of which, are you doing your exercises? How’s your reach? What about your grip?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine,” Joe repeated, even though he hadn’t gotten around to doing PT since Haresh Clay hit town the week before.

“Good. Go back to the beginning, and do more reps,” Methos said. “Doctor’s orders. And use that scar cream I made you. It will help with the adhesions.”

“It stinks.”

“It works.”

“Fine.”

“You sound stressed,” Methos observed. “Are you sleeping?”

“Who’s stressed? Me? Nah. I quit my day job. For now, I’m just a guy pouring drinks.” Joe thought the news update sounded pretty good, put like that. Swamping out the bar at night was a lot more fun than picking up bodies in alleys. Most nights. 

Methos was quiet for a few beats as that biographical update filtered over the phone lines to Jomsom. “Somehow, I would have thought that retirement would have you feeling groovier. Trouble with your former employer?”

“Not really. Things have settled down. You’re in the clear. I might even go back part-time,” Joe hedged. “I’m waiting to hear.”

“Then let me guess. MacLeod is back in Seacouver too? Is he still treating you like a sheep-stealing Sassenach? Tell your friendly neighborhood physician.”

“Well, he shook hands with Richie, and finally accepted a drink, but he wouldn’t sit at the bar. It’s a process,” Joe said.

“You’ve got the patience of a saint, Joe. That’s not a compliment, by the way,” Methos added pointedly. “Who has he been fighting now? You can tell me. Doctor’s confidentiality. What’s keeping you awake at nights?”

Joe rolled his eyes, knowing everything would stay safely between Methos, Joe, and the Jomsom telephone exchange. “Haresh Clay. You’ll hear about it through the grapevine eventually, even in Lo Monthang.”

“Haresh…” Methos’ voice was barely audible. “Wellan, too?”

“Yes. Richie took Wellan down under the bridge overpass. He walked into the wrong bar, on the wrong day. Haresh took it badly.”

“I can imagine. It sounds like Richie’s entering his terrible twos. Be careful around him, Joe,” Methos warned. “But Haresh? That’s way out of his league.”

“Mac had history with him.”

“Quelle surprise,” Methos said dryly. “We’re going to have to work fast, Joe, if we’re going to salvage their legacy for the chronicles.”

“We? What is this ‘we’? I’m an ex-chronicler. You are literally on the other side of the world.”

“We need to salvage their trove. They were old school, never traveled far without their baggage train after the Templar banks collapsed.”

“As in treasure trove? You don’t need money.” Joe repeated blankly. Still, he pulled a bar tab over to take notes. Purely out of habit. “The lawyers handle the estates. We...you...they, the field Watchers don’t interfere.”

“I’m not talking mere gelt, Joe. Haresh and Wellan guarded something better: the Biblioteca Corvinus.” 

“You’re shitting me,” Joe broke in when Methos drew a long breath. “The Corvinas? The lost library of the Raven King? It was destroyed when the Ottomans overran the city. Only a couple hundred codexes survived.”

“I knew him, Joe. King Matthias Corvinus of Hungary was renowned as a warrior, but who remembers his victories now? Ah, but the books! Illumined codices with bejewelled bindings, linen scrolls from Ireland, Egyptian papyri. Some said he had 20,000 bound books alone, with the King’s raven sigil carved or branded on the cover of each. Sadly, in the frolicking year of 1490, Matthias ate a bad plum, succumbed without an heir, and his kingdom crumbled. Bad plums were a problem in the Borgia years.”

“So I hear. Are you saying you worked for the Raven King?” Joe didn’t quite scoff. There were a lot of holes in the Methos Chronicles.

“It was a dream job for a young footloose copyist looking to earn a quiet living. Food and beer abounded. Scholars visited from across four continents,“ Methos waxed nostalgic, undeterred.

“You copied books for beer and goulash?” Joe was almost convinced. Almost.

“It was one of my best jobs since Alexandria, and right up there with Paris. You and I worked with rare books for years at Shakespeare and Company, Joe. You know even one lost Corvina codex is close to the holy grail for collectors. In the wrong hands, the remaining books could be ravaged. You’ve got to save the library.”

“And how did Haresh Clay and Carter Wellan end up with it?”

“They had an inside librarian, but that’s a long story for another time. All the copyists could see the writing on the wall--the library was on the invasion path. The Sultan was marching. It was doomed. Clay and Wellan signed on with the Vizier’s invading retinue. When the Raven King’s castle was captured, Carter Wellan was in charge of the baggage train, Haresh wrote up the Sultan’s plunder inventory. They sent a few flashy gem-encrusted bestsellers back to Constantinople and blamed the loss of the rest on Matthias’ relatives and mercenaries.”

“Wait, wait, wait, they stole the Raven King’s library right out from under the Vizier’s nose, and just rode off into the sunset?” Joe wrote down a reminder to call the researchers at Shakespeare and Company, then drew a line through it. “They’d need help. You can’t just box up 5,000 codexes and spirit them out of a battle with a couple of asses.”

“20,000 handcopied books, Joe. Books! On burros. Don’t cast aspersions on Equus asinus, Joe.”

“Far from me to insult your horse’s patoot,” Joe murmured through a blast of static. He did the math in his head. “100 books per burro, 2,000 burros. That’s a mighty lot of hayburners to feed.”

“...And that’s not counting the scrolls,” Methos enthused when the connection cleared. “Joe, you know you can get away with the most amazing things in a war zone. You’ve been in the middle of one for most of your life.”

“Good point, it is one amazing story,” Joe answered amiably. “This sounds more like a snipe hunt than a book salvage. Especially since recent scholars debunked 20,000 book count in the Biblioteca Corvinus as an inflated myth.”

“I’m a myth!” Methos managed to snarl through the static.

“The rest of the library probably rotted to pieces in the Sultan’s basements on the Bosporus,” Joe said reasonably. “If there were more, Don Salzer at Shakespeare and Company would have sent us young apprentices to the ends of the Earth to find them.”

“Who says he didn’t! Find the Corvinas, Joe!” A series of beeps drowned Methos’ words, and the line to Upper Mustang went dead. 

Joe stared at the phone for a long time before the dial tone came on and he replaced the receiver. “Biblioteca Corvinus, my ass. He just thinks I’m not exercising, and need to get out more.” The fact that Methos was irritatingly right about his sleepless nights did not assuage Joe’s ire as he stalked back into the bar to close it down. 

*******Joe’s Bar********

After locking the bar’s front door and checking the bathrooms, Joe looked around, running his mental checklist--wipe everything down, count out the till, take out the garbage and empties, restock, put the chairs up. The bar business--such was the glamor. Still, he was lucky to have a backup plan. Unemployed Watchers were not in big demand, and he had bills to pay. 

When the phone rang again, he almost didn’t huck across the room to answer it. If Methos was phoning back, he’d better come up with the real reason he called. Something tangible, like a goji beer recipe, or a smoked yak barbecue sauce, not pipe dreams about fairy tale libraries. Where was he socked away during the Medici reign, anyway? Knossos? Sardinia? Naples? Not Hungary. Hungary was cold. Castles were drafty. Beheadings were uncomfortably common.

“Joe’s. We’re closed.” More peremptory than his usual greeting, but his legs were sore and hot, and his shoulder was grousing. Maybe it really was time to break out some of that smelly rub Methos had made him use in Paris.

“Joe, it’s Richie. You’re still there?”

“Where else would I be? The backup bartender didn’t show. Want a job?”

“Jeez, you really must be hard up. I’d drink up all the profits. But I’ll come over and pitch in for a pitcher.”

“Just one? Nah, I got it. I’d be done before you got here,” Joe boasted, surveying the tumble of chairs that needed stacking and empty beer coolers that needed filling, lying through his teeth.

“Joe, I was afraid that my Watcher might have called you out to find me the other night. I thought I saw you hanging in the alley.”

“He did, and I was, and I chewed him out for crying wolf. He’d better not do it again, rookie or no. So stop teasing him, will you? Technically, I’m still suspended.”

“Er...about tonight...maybe if he calls again, let it go to the answering machine?”

“Don’t cost me sleep, kid. It makes me cranky, and I’ll charge you double for your favorite vodka,” Joe chided. “There are unintended consequences to playing hide and seek with your Watcher. Dragging me out of bed when your Watcher panics will be the very least of your problems if this escalates.”

“Speaking of escalation…” Richie hesitated, then plowed on. “Did you know there was a new Immortal in town? I felt somebody, hanging around down by the docks.”

“I’m out of the loop,” Joe said, closing his eyes. He didn’t need more worries about a prowling Immortal while he was out on the prowl himself, looking for Methos’ mythical library.

“But you’ve got more histories in your head than all the floppy disks in Europe,” Richie wheedled.

“I’m not psychic. Gimme a description.”

“Skinny, blond, my height, nice briefcase, like a lawyer, vest buttoned down like he had the same tailor as Haresh Clay.”

Joe jotted down the note out of habit on a bar tab, then ripped it up. “I’ll take your fashion sense under advisement, but he doesn’t ring a bell. What were you doing down by the docks, anyway?”

“I was going to make amends,” Richie admitted. “I owe Delilah an apology.”

“Yes, you do. Congratulations. You have a learning curve.” 

“Her beer isn’t that bad. She just needs to clean the taps.”

“Okay, you have a shallow learning curve. A good vendor cleans the taps. Bartenders quality check. I suspect Delilah is not a beer drinker.”

“How come?”

“Professional secret. Better take me along for your apology, tomorrow. I’ll pick up all your pieces and sew them up for you afterwards, and recommend a couple of new keg vendors to Delilah.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Joe.”

“De nada.”

******The Loft above the Dojo*******

Rain washed the windows of the loft. Spring was late to let go in Seacouver this year. MacLeod closed his accounts book and lifted a midnight scotch, quashing a primordial guilt that he dallied in comfort, with no lambing shed or sheepfold to batten down against the lashing winds. Then he straightened.

Despite the dark and stormy night, someone still prowled the streets, someone Immortal. MacLeod rose from his desk as a frisson washed adrenaline through his veins. The loft elevator chain was silent, but there was the barest sound of a shuffle at the door to the stairs, and then a sharp knock. “MacLeod. Mac. It’s Richie. Can I come in? If it’s too late I’ll head on out…”

Richie carefully stood well back, hands empty, when MacLeod opened the door in welcome. There once was a time Richie would have barged right in. There once was a time he didn’t even knock. But now he hung his wet coat in the entry with the hilt only just concealed, and he scanned MacLeod’s face and the rest of the room before he stepped away. Still, he had no difficulty finding the cold beer in the fridge.

“I saw your light, and took a chance,” Richie explained vaguely. “I know you like to do the books on Wednesdays.”

“Is there trouble?” MacLeod asked. “On a night like this, even the seagulls find shelter.”

“No. No trouble. Well. I did see an Immortal down near the pier, earlier today. He was a stranger. Looked like a lawyer. Blond. Thin. All buttoned up. I stopped. He stopped. We just looked at each other.” Richie averted his eyes. “I waved. He waved.”

“What happened?” MacLeod asked softly.

“Nothing. He turned to watch an incoming ferry dock.”

“And you?” MacLeod finished his glass, and walked to the window to check the street. Empty.

“I thought about Carter Wellan. And I turned around and walked away.” Richie suddenly laughed. “Well, not quite. I turned around and ran right into my new Watcher. I’ve been leading him on a goose chase for a few days now.” 

“It is good to spot them. It isn’t always good to tease them. Few of them have Joe’s patience. Or fortitude.” 

“Patience? Joe shot you, what, twice?” Richie grinned ruefully. 

“I well deserved it the second time,” MacLeod matched Richie’s rueful smile and poured another dram for himself, turned his chair by the desk and sat, facing his guest. They both flicked their eyes at the window as actinic light lanced across the sky. Silence held between them until the reassuring rumble of thunder followed. MacLeod lifted his glass and tipped it toward Richie. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

“Hey, Mac,” Richie hesitated, then plowed on, “You remember in the old days it was kind of annoying when we’d be walking down a nice quiet dark alley, minding our own business, thinking we’ve slipped all those Watchers, then you hear that tap on the pavement, and you look around, and there’s Joe?”

“Ah, the old days, all of last year,” MacLeod laughed, tilting his head as he decoded Richie’s run on sentence. “Annoying? Sometimes. Most of the time, I’d rather know where he is, than guess.” 

“You know what’s more annoying?” Richie pressed.

“No, what?” Duncan took a slow, full, taste of his whisky.

“Not hearing that tap on the pavement. And you look around. And there’s no Joe.”

MacLeod nodded, and twitched aside the curtain to look down the rainwashed streets. “I’ll be very annoyed at both you and your Watcher if he calls Joe out into this fell weather.” He turned his glass in his hand, gazing into the amber liquid. “As far as I know, the Watchers haven’t accepted Joe’s reapplication, yet. He’s still a civilian.”

“I still can’t believe he quit the Watchers after I broke my sword.”

“There was a lot more to it than that.” MacLeod frowned, and glanced out at the rain spattering the window. “In Paris, when we were in hiding from the Watchers, after we dug the bullets out of his shoulder…”

Richie bolted upright, eyes blazing, ready for battle, almost dropping his beer. “Bullets? As in plural? Joe was shot? Who?”

“He didn’t tell you? No, he wouldn’t. Three times. Here. Just missed the artery,” MacLeod tapped his left shoulder, sighed and topped off his single malt. “We nearly lost him.”

“Mac, tell me you got the guy.”

“Joe took that burden on himself. It was an old friend of mine,” MacLeod said slowly, leaving volumes unsaid. “I haven’t exactly been forthcoming about my missteps, either. We both lost people, and Joe took more than his fair share of blame. It might surprise you to find I can carry a grudge.”

“You? Never!” Richie widened his eyes, all innocence. “But geez, Joe. Is he okay now? I mean, he levers everything with his arms and shoulders.”

“We make bad examples for mortals, Richie. You’d think Joe would be old enough to know better,” MacLeod said with dour admiration. “He stormed off to fix the Watchers in France, single-handed, stitches just pulled, running on pure outrage and foolish chivalry toward an ancient oath. I couldn’t believe it when he quit.”

“But you just asked Joe to join up again. Isn’t that a bit...dishonorable?” Richie challenged. “Making him spy on his own?”

“We learn from each battle. Joe said the situation has changed. We’ll see.” MacLeod paused, got up slowly and circled around to get another beer, handing it to Richie. “Relax. You can stay here tonight, if you want. We need to catch up.”

“I think I need to call Joe again, first.”

“Why? It’s after midnight on a stormy Tuesday. They’ve locked up the bar by now. He’s probably on the stage, practicing.”

“To apologize. And to see if he’s okay. He’s closing the bar all alone tonight. And you just told me he’s full of extra holes, and he’s challenged a multinational spy corporation all by himself, and he isn’t Immortal, but he’s acting like he is.”

MacLeod raised an eyebrow. “When you put it that way, it sounds a bit more dire. If you plan on wording it quite that way with Joe I want to listen in.”

So Richie borrowed the desk phone and dialed Joe’s Bar. There was no answer.

**********Meanwhile, Back at Joe’s Bar***********

The chairs were up, the breakage hauled to recycling, the garbage set out in the alley, the bar restocked. Joe gave the bar one last wipedown and unlocked the cash register, pulling the till for the count out. It was heavy with change. It was time to roll some quarters. He let the heft of the locked change box extend his arm fully to stretch his aching left shoulder, reminding himself to do his exercises. Tomorrow. 

Joe leaned heavily on the cane in his right hand as he turned toward the office door. He nearly dropped the till at the sight of a man blocking the end of the bar--a man holding _his_ gun, which should have been in his jacket locked in the office. 

“Please go around the other side of the bar and sit down, Mr. Dawson. We have business to discuss.” Medium height. Blond short-banged Caesar haircut. A sharp-dressed man.

“The. Bar. Is. Closed.” Joe snapped. “How did you get in here?”

“Your backup bartender rendered up duplicate keys for a modest fee.”

“Ex-backup bartender.” Joe measured the distance between them in the close quarters behind the bar. Eight feet. Both too near and too far. “Get out from behind my bar, bud. I won’t warn you twice.”

The intruder made a tiny motion with the gun and took a step forward, closer to Joe. “Come now. Let us sit down and have a civilized discussion. I want the Corvinas. I will pay you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, get out before I call the cops.” 

“We would both prefer not to attract the attention of the authorities.” The intruder’s voice was low, well-modulated, confident. “You may put the money down. It is quite safe from me.” He took another smooth half step forward into the tight alley behind the bar, relaxed, weight balanced evenly.

“You don’t come behind another guy’s bar,” Joe challenged, standing firm.

The bar phone between them rang, startling them both. Joe calculated the distances, took a small step forward.

“Don’t answer that, please. I prefer no interruptions.”

Joe preferred no further holes in his torso. As the phone pealed out six rings, unanswered, Joe leaned hard on his cane and carefully rebalanced, planning his next three moves. “What the hell is a Corvina? If you left a fancy car on the streets around here, that’s your lookout.”

“Please don’t waste my time. It is valuable.”

“Well, then don’t waste your time here, bud.” The wait station and well liquor bottles were on his left, the top shelf brands and glassware on his right. “Just who do you think you are?”

“Here and now, you may call me Karsten. Next week, next month? Another name, another city. But our business will end here. Where are the Corvinas? Come now, before I get annoyed.” Karsten waved the gun again, and took another step forward, blocking the near end of the bar completely.

Joe instinctively leaned back from the gun, dropping his cane at Karsten’s feet. They both watched it fall between them. Joe grabbed the back bar for balance, and Karsten reflexively twitched his eyes to Joe’s empty right hand. But Joe was already launching the till box in an underhand rising pitch. 

The money box met the gun as it fired. A bullet pinged against the till, popped the latch, and deflected into the ceiling. Bills and unrolled quarters, dimes and nickels showered the back bar as Karsten swore and hunted for the gun where it fell below the sink.

Bracing on the bar with his left hand, Joe scooted forward, grabbing a nice, hefty bottle of Grand Marnier by the neck. He brought it down on the crown of Karsten’s head with authority. “How’s that for being annoyed, bud?”

Pawing at the bar and spilling the jar of cherries, Karsten collapsed nicely, creasing his suit, and spilling maraschino juice on his very expensive vest. Neither bottle broke, which pleased Joe. Sticky juice was bad enough, but cleaning up broken glass behind the bar was a bitch. He considered giving the intruder another tap, but hesitated, as he could not verify with complete certainty that Karsten was Immortal. Yet. “Are you playing possum?” he asked the body, mostly rhetorically.

Bracing on the bar, he leaned down and felt around in the dim space under the bar sink for the gun, but it was out of reach. He didn’t have any handcuffs or rope, and wouldn’t Amanda chide him about that? If worse came to worst, Joe might have to stab Karsten with the less than impressive knife he used to cut up limes.

Leaning down one more time to pick up his cane, Joe swore when he saw sparks dance across the contusion on top of Karsten’s head. “Oh, shit…” he muttered. Karsten was already erupting upward. Joe pinwheeled back, shattering the glasses on the back bar and clocking his jaw on a shelf. Bracing his stiff left shoulder, he pushed upright and started pitching bottle after bottle at the Immortal. “Don’t make me throw the whisky,” Joe warned. “It’s a single cask Highland Park.”

Karsten stopped advancing abruptly, and concentrated on batting down a flying green bottle of Midori, which broke at his feet. “This is ridiculous. Just tell me where the Corvinas are. I’ll pay you more than this bar is worth. You can’t sell them. I have the contacts.”

Joe winced as the bottle of Bombay Sapphire he sailed over Karsten’s head blasted a stage light to smithereens, and paused for a breath. “I never heard anyone mention the word Corvina aloud in my bar before today,” he said with careful consideration for the truth. “You have the wrong place and the wrong guy.”

“I saw your name on the owner’s contact sheet. You had to be the one who rerouted the shipment. Everyone else is dead. Wellan. Haresh Clay. Don Salzer.” Karsten ticked off his fingers. “Raven coat of arms on the books, Raven King. You’re a corvid, Watcher. Raven. Crow. Rook. Magpie. Jackdaw. Dawson.”

Joe drew himself up straight. He took down another bottle, looked at the Redbreast label, then carefully placed the Irish single pot on the top shelf. He rearmed himself with the Sambuca, instead. “The name’s Joe. Not Jack. And I never heard something so breathtakingly stupid come out of an Immortal’s mouth before.”

Deeply offended, Karsten snatched a bottle from near the vodka shelf, ready to resume battle.

“Not the Brennivin!” Joe barked.

Karsten looked sideways at the bottle, then back at Dawson before he could fling another projectile. “Iceland doesn’t export this brand.”

“I know a guy,” Dawson said.

“Perhaps we have more in common than I realized.” Karsten plucked two remaining unbroken glasses from the back bar and beat a strategic retreat to a table at the edge of Joe’s effective pitching range. He surveyed the undamaged areas of the bar more carefully. “You are a man of discerning tastes.”

The way Karsten’s eyes lingered over Joe’s vintage Martin guitar propped on the stage gave the musician chills. “I know what I like.” Diplomacy was never Joe’s strong suit when it came to poseurs. “I don’t like you.”

“I was rude. Forgive me. Reparations can be made. Please. Sit.” Karsten poured himself a liberal shot of Brennivin, tipping the glass in Joe’s direction before sipping.

“I’ll stand here.” The floor was too open. Most of his potential weapons were behind the bar. Joe surveyed the wreckage, a bit appalled with himself. His bones rattled with adrenaline in the aftermath of the fight. He carefully poured a small beer, and took a large sip, not taking his eyes off Karsten. Not tipping his glass. Not tipping his hand. “Whatever you’re looking to find, it isn’t here.”

“I came looking for you, to find what you know.” 

“I don’t know a damn thing.”

Karsten finished his drink, and carefully capped the bottle. “Do you know that the Icelanders call Brennivin ‘the Black Death’?”

The words weren’t threatening. Not at all. Joe let them roll off into a long silence, before saying, “You’re 86’ed. I can call you a taxi, or I can call the cops. Either way, I want you gone.” Deliberately, he turned his back on Karsten and bent down to pick up his cane, spending one extra second to locate the gun. He heard the scrape of a chair on the bar floor.

As Joe levered erect, Karsten was just vaulting over the bar, sword drawn. Joe smashed the hand planted on the bar with the sambuca bottle. Throwing balance to the winds, he ducked under the sword, putting all his strength into a right cross, smashing the head of his cane into Karsten’s temple. Karsten’s momentum slammed them both into the back bar, and they both tumbled to the floor in a pile of loose limbs. 

For a long moment, near silence reigned in the bar, broken only by the slow drip of sambuca off the lip of the bar into the sink.

“Gerroffa me,” Joe gasped, pinned underneath Karsten’s dead weight. He still held his cane, but had no leverage in the narrow space between the back bar and the sinks. His strong right shoulder was pinned, and his weak arm scrabbled through the broken glass and spilled liquor under the bar. All too quickly, he felt Karsten stiffen, and push himself up by planting his hands on Joe’s chest. 

“Gerroff, dammit…” Joe demanded through gritted teeth.

“Make me,” Karsten smiled. The sly smile slowly faded as he felt a cold barrel poke under his ear.

“Your choice, bud,” Joe held the gun rock steady in his left hand. “Now, if I recall correctly, you’ve been 86’ed.”

*********Joe's Front Door********

Richie felt the Immortal echo as they turned onto Joe’s block. MacLeod slid the Corvette sideways on the rain slick street to pull in to the bar’s entrance. Richie burst out the passenger door before the car stopped rolling. MacLeod drew his sword and guarded his back as Richie pounded on the door, calling out, “Joe! We’re on our way!” Without waiting for an answer, he bent down to pick the deadbolt lock. It gave up without a fight.

“The Immortal is probably still inside,” MacLeod cautioned, pushing into the bar first, to be met by the smell of spilled liquor and the crunch of broken glass underfoot.

Richie belatedly drew his sword and bolted into the bar, ignoring MacLeod’s warning, again calling out for Joe. “Where are you, Joe?”

“Take it easy. I’m right here,” Joe’s voice floated up from behind the bar.

Richie rounded the corner and slid to his knees next to Joe. “Are you okay?”

“Great. Just great.” Joe waved as MacLeod poked his head over the bar, finding Joe measured full length on the floor, cane in one hand, gun in the other, no visible extra holes. 

The back door of the bar swung open, letting in a rain-washed draft. “Stay with Joe!” MacLeod commanded as he bolted out the back, hot on the heels of Karsten’s retreating Immortal signature.

“Mac! Hold on, fight’s over. I won,” Joe protested. But MacLeod was in the wind.

“You won?” Richie checked for major punctures and brushed broken glass off Joe’s shirt and Levi’s.

“I won. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it,” Joe declared. Still, he lay without moving and let Richie pick off the worst of the glass.

“Okay. You won. But I think we should get you checked out, anyway,” Richie said, reaching up to dial 911 when he saw the swelling on Joe’s jaw and some slices on his knuckles. “I mean, what about your shoulder?”

“It’s fine,” Joe reached up to put the gun up under the till, with only a tiny grimace.

“Your poker face is broken,” Richie said, still concerned.

“Hang up the phone and hoist me up, already. The bar isn’t going to clean itself.” But Richie had already dropped the receiver and focused his attention on the back hallway.

MacLeod slammed the back door closed and stalked into the bar. “He’s gone. He was driving a black Ettore Bugatti toward the bay. The Corvette will never keep up,” he complained, with a trace of jealousy. “Joe, are you okay?”

“I’ll be a whole lot better when I get up out of this puddle of sambuca,” Joe sulked. Richie and MacLeod pulled him up in very careful stages, until Joe batted away their helpful hands. “I’m good.”

“You just won a battle against an Immortal!” Richie said with wonder.

“Fancy car, fancy suit, fancy ego. All easily bruised. He’s a scavenger, Rich, not a fighter. Hey, Mac, I bet you we can trace that car. All twelve cylinders.” 

“After we give you a hand cleaning up the bar,” MacLeod promised.

“Joe, you’re bleeding,” Richie warned, craning to get a better look at a red stain dripping from the back of Joe’s silvering hair to his collar.

“Maraschinos. The first casualty of the battle. Inventory’s going to be a bitch.” Joe wiped the back of his head with a bar rag. “Ecch. I need a shower,” he said, and made his stately way to his overnight apartment in the back.

MacLeod and Richie glanced at each other, shook their heads, and pitched in. They made quick work of the cleanup by simply throwing everything broken, cracked, bloodstained, or glass-imbedded into the dumpster in the alley. As they were sweeping up the last load, MacLeod asked Richie, “Will you stay here tonight and keep watch over him? I’d like to scout the bay area. Joe’s right, that Bugatti will be noticed.”

“Do you think he’ll let me? I mean, look what happened to the last guy,” Richie grinned.

MacLeod laughed. “Try sacking out on the couch in his office. He’ll be too polite to throw you out. He has an overdeveloped sense of hospitality toward his friends.”

“Good thing for us.”

“Yes,” MacLeod nodded, suddenly serious. “Good thing.”

***************

Sneaking around dark rooms at night wasn’t Joe’s forte, but he did his best as he rolled his wheelchair behind his desk and booted up his Micron Millennia. The sound of the dialup connection bebopped interminably, making all sneaking moot.

“What are you doing up so late, Joe?” Richie asked sleepily from the office couch.

“Working.” Joe turned on the desk light, since he’d already woken Richie. “Deep scholarly research.”

“It’s four in the morning,” Richie complained, looking at his watch.

“Kids these days. Lightweights,” Joe disparaged. “HQ in Lyons used to call at 4:00 am all the time. Midday in France. Messed with my sleep for years.”

“You’re off the clock, Joe,” Richie reminded. “What’s keeping you up now?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

Richie pulled the blanket up over his head, saying with a muffled groan, “Famous last words.”

“I’ll file that away for the next firing squad,” Joe laughed. 

Richie didn’t. “Don’t be famous, Joe. Be alive.” He threw off the blanket and gave Joe his best dangerous glare.

“Wise words, sensei,” Joe stopped laughing, but there was still a merry gleam in his eye. “We’ve been missing something from the beginning,” he said. “Why do you think Wellan and Clay were meeting at Delilah’s bar?” 

“It wasn’t because of the fern bar and blender drinks,” Richie sat up. “But it’s a good place to settle some quiet business.” 

“They had vehicles, and every fern bar in the city to choose from,” Joe frowned, got down his current copy of the yellow pages. He thumbed to shipping, flipping pages and running his finger down pages, checking addresses. “They didn’t just have a bit of business to settle. They had _a_ business nearby, and Delilah’s was handy.”

“Under the freeway, next to the docks? What were they, smugglers?” Richie suggested. 

“The best cover story is the truth.” Joe only had to thumb down to an artistic half page splash ad in the C’s. “And there it is. Carter Freight. Worldwide transportation. Secure facilities in every major port.” 

“So much for deep scholarly research,” Richie grumbled, throwing off the blanket and peering over Joe’s shoulder. “Wait, really? Mac and I used Carter Freight to move Tessa’s sculptures. That’s a legit art and antique transport outfit from Seacouver to France.”

“And the Med, the Caribbean, the South China Seas...It looks like Carter grew his mule train into a full-blown shipping empire. He didn’t just squire for Haresh Clay--he sponsored his own knight. Personal yachts, container ships, bonded warehouses, all perfect cover for a pair of sophisticated and worldly Immortals.”

“Wait, why not Wellan Freight?” Richie yawned. “Why his first name?”

“Carter is nicely generic. Wellan is memorable. It might have been his original first name. Carter was his first job. Think back into history, Richie, and imagine young Wellan the Carter, driving supply wagons and mules during the Crusades, trailing behind the Templars. Maybe one night he catches the eye of an itinerant knight across a campfire, in the market for a squire...and in the mood to take on a student.”

“You’ve got a helluva imagination deducing that from an ad in the yellow pages, Joe.”

“Behold the power of a trained chronicler,” Joe boasted. “Now go back to sleep. I have to call your Watcher.” 

“I’ll pretend I’m not listening.”

“You? Not listening? That’ll be a stretch,” Joe grinned, as he picked up the desk phone and dialed. “Hey, Marvin, it’s Joe.”

“My Watcher’s name is Marvin?” Richie grumbled, but shut up as Joe shot him a warning look, and switched to speakerphone.

“Joe! I was going to call you,” Marvin piped, his voice stressed. “In the morning. I lost Richie. Again. The new Regional Director is not happy with me.”

“I know Richie’s been ditching you lately. And that was just bad luck you missed the Wellan fight on your first assignment.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Richie whispered. “Chronicle that.”

“Hush,” Joe mouthed.

“Something’s up, Joe,” Marvin said. “Richie never came home, and MacLeod’s car is gone.”

“That does sound suspicious,” Joe encouraged, dangling the bait. “I have an idea that might get you back into the Watchers’ good graces. But Marvin, it might put you out on a limb. Are you up for it?”

“What do I have to do?” Marvin asked with refreshing enthusiasm, tempered by understandable doubt. 

“Just do your job, look for your Immortal, and write a report. Plan for a long night, bring snacks. Charge your satphone.” The rookie reminder litany rolled off Joe’s tongue before he remembered he didn’t supervise anyone, anymore.

“It’s always charged! I got one of those new car chargers,” Marvin boasted. 

“Sorry, ingrained habit. Sounds like you’ve got it handled,” Joe spoke easily, comrade to comrade. “By the way, you don’t happen to know Carter Wellan’s Watcher, do you?”

“Damon’s been on a binge for a week,” Marvin said sadly, returning the comrade to comrade vibe, then belatedly realized his misstep. “I mean, he’s sad. And unassigned. And don’t tell anyone I said that, please? He’s a nice guy. Underneath.”

“Underneath. Right. I’m the last person to pass judgement, kid.” Joe laughed at himself, sharing the comradely joke with Marvin, then shifting gears. “Think you can sober him up enough to give me a call? I hear from a little birdie that some well-dressed lawyer-type is poking around the wharf looking to tap into some of Wellan’s recent imports, now that he’s gone. A real scavenger. There’s a chance he’s Immortal.” 

“A lawyer? Oh, Damon won’t like that. He won’t like that at all.”

“He’s afraid of lawyers?”

“He’s head longshoreman for Carter Freight, worldwide. Lawyers are afraid of him,” Marvin said, with a touch of disapproval. 

No wonder Marvin wasn’t calling Damon about all his woes with Richie. “I could’ve used a longshoreman here tonight,” Joe said, rubbing the bruise on his chin and wincing. “Tell Damon to keep an eye out, and call. We can commiserate and consider the next move.” 

“First kill all the lawyers?” Richie offered helpfully from the couch.

Joe tilted his head and shot him a warning look, but didn’t immediately discard the idea. “Okay, Marvin. Anything else?”

“Can I tell you something I didn’t tell you earlier, Joe?” Marvin’s voice revved up in the earpiece. “You know, I thought I saw a guy with a really spendy suit looking at us yesterday, but Richie didn’t challenge him like usual, so I kept following Richie, until I lost him, and called you. Again. And you yelled at me and you were right and I forgot and he waved...” Marvin’s stream of consciousness confession was strangely compelling, like the bad poetry of an early morning grunge band video on MTV.

“Okay, okay, okay, sorry I snapped at you yesterday,” Joe interjected, to make him stop and catch a breath. Or a clue. Rookies.

“Should I have followed the other guy? Do I add him to my notes? Do I add this phone call from you to my notes?”

“Let’s see what happens, first,” Joe said, rolling his eyes. How did young apprentice Watchers ever get to be sage old journeyman Watchers? Probably not by asking advice from rogue unemployed Watchers like Joe. “If it is an off-the-books Immortal, you can put a first sighting in your report and score points with your boss. Forget about me. You do remember I’m not your boss, right?”

“Of course not. You’re a street informant. I can cite anonymous informants in my reports.” Marvin didn’t quite scoff, but it was still a good thing he was separated from Joe by miles of phone line.

Richie miraculously held his tongue, considering how scandalized he looked.

Embarrassed for his former profession, Joe throttled some surprisingly murderous impulses, and sighed. It wasn’t Marvin’s fault Joe had tanked his own career. “By the book, then. You scout around for this mysterious Immortal, and your friendly neighborhood street informer here will keep tabs on Richie for you. Maybe we’ll get together at Delilah’s and trade notes. I’ll introduce you.”

“Oh, we’re already good friends,” Marvin assured. “She gets so much Immortal and Watcher traffic nowadays, I think we should recruit her. After all, if the boss says we can’t meet at your place anymore, we’ll need a new team rendezvous. If she’s one of us, we can claim refreshments on our expense account.” 

“Then you’re buying,” Joe shook his head. Marvin was sneakier than Joe had given him credit for. He might make it to journeyman yet, mores the pity. “Just have Damon call me,” Joe reminded again, and hung up, releasing a long breath.

Richie’s eyes were wide. “Wow, Joe. Just...wow. That’s my Watcher now? Marvelous Marv?”

“Don’t start, Richie. Granted, he wouldn’t have been my first choice. He’s young. You’re young. With luck, he’ll grow up to learn the job.”

“If you don’t kill him first.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“So, you’ve got your Watcher scouting party out. Duncan’s on the prowl. Now we kick back and see what they run down, and then follow up tomorrow?”

“Oh, no. We do the research. Karsten is looking for something. We want to get there first.”

“How? There’s got to be dozens of storage warehouses on the whole waterfront.”

“Hundreds. Maybe thousands, if you count the back bay neighborhoods. Watch, and observe, young grasshopper.” Joe reached for the phone book again, and paged to the city maps. He pointed at the closeup of the waterfront. “Here’s Delilah’s, under the bridge. Here’s the shipping wharves, and Wellan’s headquarters. They’re nearly in a straight line with the ferry terminal where Karsten was spotted, close to the commercial district and the highway access, with the airport just up the road.”

“Hey, Shakespeare and Company is just outside the line.” 

“That neighborhood is pretty gentrified, but we’ll include the backstock storage.” Joe marked the map, and connected the dots to make a nice tight triangle. “Tessa and MacLeod used to keep some antiques in storage down there. What’s in the center?”

“Mostly more storage. Anonymous warehouses. But only a few. Maybe a dozen. That’s doable.”

“That’s doable.” Joe ripped out the page with the Carter Freight address and phone number and folded it into his pocket. “Make some coffee, maybe scramble up some eggs. I’ll get my legs on.”

Richie paused at the door. “Mac’s looking for Karsten. Marvin’s looking for me. Karsten’s looking for you. What are we looking for, Joe?”

“Long life and happiness, Richie, and the sense to enjoy the road along the way. The rest is just gravy.”

“That’s awfully heavy for four thirty in the morning, Joe.”

“Particularly when you’re sober,” Joe agreed. 

But something Richie said made a loose jigsaw puzzle piece click into place in Joe’s thoughts. He pulled out the page with Carter Freight’s number on it, and dialed. “Hey, you’re open, good. My buddy at MacLeod’s Antiques said you were reliable, and ran out shipments 24/7.” Joe shot a sideways look at Richie, who was working his way up to a good affront. “Right, good buddy?” he asked, sotto voce, and winked to seal the deal.

“You con artist,” Richie replied in the same undertone. “What are you up to?”

Joe waved him off, and worked the deal. “We’re ready to load right now, and need the drivers ready to move out fast to make a contract. Can you do it?”

Joe’s shameless use of MacLeod’s name had the results he expected--the night clerk seemed more than happy to help. “We’ll need at least five semis,” Joe said, digging out his credit card with a rueful grimace. “Better make it ten. There are some fragile pieces. I’ll be down there to sign the paperwork by five,” he promised as he hung up.

“Hey, Joe, can you afford that?” Richie asked, concerned.

“Probably not.”

“I mean, is it even really necessary? Me and Mac will take care of Karsten.”

“Chasing unknown Immortals is a low percentage play, Richie. I prefer you didn’t do it on my account.”

“But what about you? You can’t afford to protect us, either. Literally. What do ten semis cost, anyway? The mortgage on your bar?”

“You don’t want to know. It’s a gamble. If it works out, the Watchers will underwrite it, just to get a tail on Karsten. Plus, they might root out whoever is feeding him information.”

“And if not?” Richie was understandably skeptical about the reliability of Watcher HR.

“Maybe I’ll end up sleeping on your couch,” Joe laughed. “Go make coffee.”

But when Richie came back to the office carrying coffee and breakfast, Joe was gone.

*********The Rainy Streets of Seacouver********

MacLeod pulled over to answer his mobile phone. “Richie? What’s wrong?”

“He ditched me!” Mac had to hold the earpiece away from his head as Richie worked through his irritation with Joe, Mac, and the world at large.

“You know Joe is used to working alone. This isn’t his first rodeo,” MacLeod said, trying to placate his protege.

“I tell you, Mac, he left me behind, just like a little kid! Without a car! And my bike’s at your apartment! And good luck finding a taxi at this hour!”

“Maybe you can call Carter Freight and have a truck pick you up,” MacLeod suggested in a carefully serious tone, barely managing to suppress a laugh.

“Can I use your credit card?” Richie asked, his anger issues disappearing like the morning fog. “I’ve got it memorized.”

“Not on your life. You and Amanda…” MacLeod paused, thinking it through. “Unless…okay. Rent a Carter truck. Drive around until you find out where the rest of the trucks are clustering. Keep an eye on Joe, but stay under his radar. Stay in touch with me.”

“Like a real Watcher? Turnabout’s fair play?”

“Turnabout’s fair play.”

*********The Rainy Alleys of Seacouver*******

The rain was letting up and a slow fog was rolling in off the bay. Joe pulled the brim of his hat down, and inspected the line of trucks parked in front of Shakespeare and Company’s backstock storage unit. Nine were buttoned up, idling, ready to roll. The tenth had a ramp out, ready for cargo. 

The warehouse door was propped open with light spilling out. The local Watchers out of either laziness or loyalty, hadn’t gotten around to taking Joe’s access code off the keypad. The floor was empty but for some unsold cases of The Horse Whisperer and The Road Ahead. Shakespeare and Company didn’t store Chronicles this close to the water, unless it was an emergency. 

Joe surveyed the field of battle, considering the approaches. Delilah’s was due south, along the shore drive, not far from the ferry. Their neon beer sign blinked in the fog. Early morning traffic already wound up and down the bridge and around to the ferry terminal as the third shift left and the first shift arrived at the new software company across the bay. A distant foghorn sounded. Dawn was near, slowly stealing away the cover of night.

Karsten was taking his own sweet time to tap into his insider pipeline at Carter Freight. Joe smiled, and amused himself during the wait by dredging up the lyrics to ‘Convoy’. “Callin’ all trucks this here’s the Duck, we’re about to go a-huntin’ bear…” 

Heavy footsteps sounded from inside the storage unit as he got to the chorus. Joe was not prepared for a foray from the Watchers quarter. Maybe they’d come to a decision. Sometimes you got the bear. Sometimes the bear got you.

An enormous shadow fell over the warehouse entrance. “Joe Dawson? I hear you’re looking for me. I’ve been looking for you, too,” the voice matched the shadow--giant, deep, and dark.

Joe sighed. It seemed like this night was just made for kicking his ass, and it wasn’t even dawn, yet. 

Then the speaker pushed back his hood, revealing a friendly but tired smile under the unruly mass of a salt and pepper mustache. “I’m Damon,” the giant twitched up his sleeve to reveal the gnarly corded arm of a working man with a Watcher tattoo. “Those are my trucks you’ve got lined up here. I hear it’s an emergency run? I came to help.”

This was the point where Joe would have flashed his sigil back. He felt a pang, and shot his cuff, his wrist inexplicably itching. “I’m moonlighting, as a favor to a friend,” he explained ruefully, sticking to the edge of the truth. “The trucks are ready to go. We just need one final package.”

“I don’t have any bills of lading on record, Joe. That’s one thing I came to talk to you about. We need to have papers for the weigh stations and final deliveries ,” Damon warned. “Unless you have permission and papers from the very top.”

Joe made a leap of trust. “Come on, check out the cargo,” he said, beckoning Damon to follow him to the back of the lead truck. Joe put his shoulder to the door lever, and popped it open.

Damon frowned. “That should be locked.”

Joe eased open the door, just enough for Damon to catch a glimpse of the interior.

Damon frowned, and pulled a very heavy duty flashlight from his raincoat to light up the space. “Oh. Oh! But wait, you’ll still need papers... ,” Damon pulled back, wide-eyed, and Joe slammed the door shut. In the distance down the shore drive, he could hear the throaty hum of a high-powered engine.

“No time. Gotta roll.” Joe banged on the side of the truck. “First truck! Five, four, three, two, one, you’re outta here!” Joe banged on the side of the truck one more time, then moved on down the line. By the time he reached the second truck, the taillights of the first were spiralling left onto the truck route up to the bridge. “We’ve got us a convoy.”

As the second truck engaged its gears, the Bugatti coasted around the corner, all twelve cylinders emitting a throaty growl as Karsten revved the engine in impotent anger. Karsten pounded on the steering wheel as the second truck turned right towards the city center.

“Hey, I know that guy,” Damon pointed at the purring car as they made their way down the line. “Want me to run him off? He’s bad news.” Damon hopefully hefted his flashlight. “It would be my pleasure.”

“As much as I’d enjoy the show, he’s an Immortal. Get Marvin or some of your crew to start a new sighting report,” Joe recommended. “He’s got a notion about Watchers, so put a careful man on him. Or better, make a complaint to our people in Interpol, spread the joy and reap the intel.” 

Joe and Damon inspected latches and tires as if they’d worked together for years, and sent off the third truck. It took three turns and headed to the ferry terminal.

“Wellan used to call him the Buzzard, and blacklisted him from our docks,” Damon explained. “I couldn’t jump ship to follow him. Just mentioning the Buzzard made Haresh livid, and Haresh doesn’t fight at his finest when he’s angry. Didn’t, that is. I still can’t believe they’re gone.”

“I am sorry you lost them,” Joe said, from his heart. “I thought I had lost MacLeod last winter, and it was like losing a brother.”

“I appreciate the kind words, Joe,” Damon acknowledged. “It’s been rough. I started as a green kid, swabbing decks on their yacht. Now I’m overseeing their freight worldwide.” Damon hit the side of the fourth truck, hard enough to mark the aluminum siding. The semi eased out and headed to the international loading dock. “They trusted me, you know?”

“I know,” Joe said quietly. “It’s a rare feeling, if you can stick it out.” Joe paused to observe Karsten before moving on to the lee of the fifth truck. The Immortal had quieted after his initial tantrum. “Speaking of trust, though, you’d better check your night clerks,” Joe warned. “Your Buzzard tapped into your paper chain somehow, and came after me tonight. He did a number on my bar. I’m still not sure why, but I think my old friend Don Salzer’s somehow related.”

Joe sent off the fifth and sixth truck in quick succession, but Karsten didn’t react. “Don liked you. He used to read to us hapless archivists about your adventures on the high seas. He helped me get out of research and into the field.”

“Don was a good man. Got me out of a pickle once in Martinique, with just a phone call.”

The seventh truck released its brakes with a whoosh and scooted out of the alley to spiral up to the bridge, heading north, not south.

“Damn. I thought he’d pick one to follow by now,” Joe said in a low voice. “It might be time for you to beat it out of here. I’m running out of trucks.”

Damon’s shot a glare at the Bugatti across the street, and weighed the flashlight in his hands. “I could put a hundred thousand dollar dent in that thing, from right here,” he muttered to himself.

“That would get a reaction out of him,” Joe agreed. “But not the one I’m looking for.”

Damon waited until they were screened by the eighth truck, then put his heavy hand on Joe’s shoulder, stopping him cold in his tracks. “There is something I have to ask. That punk you know, Richie. He really took out Wellan? Was it a fair fight?”

Joe nodded, and met Damon’s eye. “It was hard, but fair.” There was no good spin to that news. “He’s not a bad kid. We all go through that young and dumb stage. Most of us survived it, somehow. The Game magnifies his mistakes.”

“That’s the damn rules of the Game,” Damon said sadly. “Speaking of rules, I heard what happened in Paris. I just want to say, I’m new here in town, and we’re a long way from HQ. If you have my back, I’ll have yours. Look out for that political pipsqueak Marvin. He’ll sign his name to your work in a heartbeat.”

“I appreciate the heads up. Keep your ears open too--he has a mouth on him. I take it Marvin’s a no show tonight?”

“He’s got the work ethic of a jellyfish. His chronicle’s a mess. Speaking of which, can I come by your place and talk to you about the closing the books on Wellan and Clay? I’ve seen your past work. It’s solid.”

“Thanks, and whenever you drop in, I’ll make time.” Joe promised. “I’d better close accounts with you, too. Just in case.” 

Using the container behind the ninth truck as cover, Damon took out an envelope, a pen, a bill, and a proof of delivery sheet. “Sign here, Joe,” Damon said. “Make sure you keep the receipt. We’ll figure out the rest later.” 

Joe signed, his eyes flinching away from the figures on the bill. Damon snatched the signed sheet back and slid the envelope and the freight bill into Joe’s inside jacket pocket above Joe’s heart. The packet seemed oddly heavy--Joe slid his hand over the envelope, feeling the outline of key inside. He cast a sideways glance at Damon, brow lifted in question. 

Damon held his gaze, and pounded on the side of the truck, making it boom and echo down the fog-shrouded street. “Get outta here! Daylight’s burning!”

As they approached the tenth truck, Joe heard the distinctive pop and burble of a vintage Corvette wending down the city center boulevard. “Uh, oh.” Joe motioned the ninth driver to get going without any further countdown. “MacLeod’s coming. I was hoping to avoid a showdown. If you want to take off, I understand.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Damon slammed the ramp back into the empty tenth truck and latched the door. “Back to the barn, no more cargo tonight!” he called out to the driver. “You’ll get union pay, anyway!”

Joe waved the driver off with a smile, privately telling his credit card to stop cringing and man up. Then he turned and waved just as cheerfully at Karsten in his fancy black Bugatti. At that moment, MacLeod turned the corner, downshifted, and braked just fifty feet away, their headlights crossing beams in the fog.

Duncan’s car roared once in neutral, engine popping as it subsided. Sliding into gear, the Corvette crept slowly forward, just a yard. The Bugatti responded with a deep vibrating purr that rattled the Watchers’ ribs. It also slunk forward. Just a yard.

“It looks like an old fashioned game of chicken,” Damon observed. “Except creepier.”

“We’re the ones who are going to be chicken-fried if the Buzzard in the Bugatti doesn’t back down,” Joe warned.

Out of both training and habit, Damon and Joe looked for cover, but the street was fenced and narrow, and painfully well lit. They silently settled for easing toward the open warehouse door a half a block away, where they’d at least have a modicum of cover from a potential quickening.

“In case this doesn’t turn out well, Joe, can I mount a personal question?” Damon asked conversationally, “Why did you just send ten empty trucks haring around the city?”

“Actually, the third one is going as far as Boise,” Joe hedged. “Maybe you can have it bring some potatoes back. They’d go well with the steak I owe you after this is all over.”

“Then you weren’t trying to set up a particularly egregious Immortal?”

“To be honest, I figured he’d follow one of the first few trucks out of town. It would give me time to figure out what he was after. I just wanted him out of Dodge. He didn’t cooperate. I guess I overdid it and brought too many trucks, and he figured it out.”

“You’re going to fall off that fine line you walk someday, Joe.”

“After a firing squad, there’s not much farther to fall,” Joe rubbed his shoulder. The fog crept into the joint and made it ache.

“Make it a number one baker, with the works,” Damon specified. “Ribeye, rare, with peppercorn sauce.”

“Deal.” Joe looked up the street. “Now what? None of the trucks were supposed to circle back.” Gears grinding, another truck approached from the bayside alleys. Joe glanced anxiously back toward the cars, but they idled, waiting.

“That’s not one of _my_ drivers,” Damon growled. The air brakes screeched painfully as the truck pulled up on the wrong side of the street in front of them. The driver reached across and opened the passenger door.

“Joe, get in. Mac wants the street clear while he has this...conversation. Your friend, too,” Richie surveyed Joe’s companion doubtfully.

Damon growled, and stamped around the truck, yanking open the driver’s door and hauling Richie out by the scruff of the neck. “Go help Joe up, punk. You need about ten years of driving lessons before you touch one of my rigs again. I’m driving.”

Richie earned points with Joe for dusting himself off and calmly walking around the front of the truck. He lost them for twitching open his raincoat to reveal the hilt of his sword. “Joe?”

“I’ll tell you later, Richie,” Joe murmured. “He’s driving. Listen and learn.”

Richie helped Joe up and squeezed into the farthest corner of the cab, miraculously keeping quiet and watching every gear shift. Joe sat perched in the middle, both hands on his cane. He didn’t snicker at Richie. Not at all. Not more than once, anyway. His full attention focused on the rear view mirror as MacLeod stepped out of the Corvette and slowly slid his sword out of its sheath and held it away from his body. The Bugatti’s headlamps caught him in sharp silhouette, wreathed in amber light.

The tableau disappeared as Damon drove. “Where to?” he asked curtly. “We can’t circle around to do our jobs properly with this Immortal git broadcasting his presence over our shoulders.”

“The security cameras at Shakespeare and Company will get the initial action,” Joe took no offense, given the circumstances. Richie did take offense, but still followed Joe’s lead. “You can drop us off and maybe get back before curtain calls.” Catching Damon’s eye, Joe just patted the envelope hidden in his pocket.

“You sure? I can drop him off in the bay, first, if you want,” Damon offered. “No extra charge.”

“Next time, maybe,” Joe allowed.

“Have it your way,” Damon shrugged, shifting smoothly through the warren of back alley wharf businesses until they pulled to a halt in front of an unmarked building that looked like every other warehouse in the block, except for some new humming generators in the back. “It doesn’t look like much, but the climate control is state of the art. Key is in the envelope, Joe. Pleasure meeting you.” He held his hand out, and they shook solemnly. 

Richie held out his hand as well. “Thanks, man.” 

Damon finally made full eye contact with Richie. “Grow up, punk. Watch your step, because I’ll be watching you. We’re going to have three kinds of electronic security slapped on this whole unit by noon tomorrow.”

Richie scrambled out of the cab and caught and steadied Joe, who was doing his level best not to grin until Damon pulled around the corner. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Pleeeease don’t tell me that’s my new Watcher now,” Richie pled. “I want Marvin. I promise not to lose him anymore. Honest.”

“You never know, Richie, it’s not my job to pick ‘em anymore.” Joe let a laugh spill out. “You could do worse.”

They both stiffened as a bolt of light shot into the sky to the east, and thunder that was not thunder echoed through the alleyways. The quickening was short and sharp, but barely more powerful than the handful of blown transformers that overloaded in sympathy around ground zero. Both Richie and Joe relaxed.

Richie shook his head. “Mac was going to try and talk him into steering clear of us. For, like, ever.”

Joe nodded. “Remember what I said about his ego being as fancy as his car?”

Richie nodded. “Pity about the car.”

Joe didn’t mention Haresh Clay’s antipathy toward the Buzzard. Richie didn’t need to hear any more about the psychology of recently settled quickenings. Not for another decade or three. “Come on, lets get inside before we attract attention.”

Joe got the envelope out and handed him the key, letting him do the honors while he held the letter at arms length, but gave up trying to read it in the bad street lighting. He closed up the letter at the same time that Richie swung open the door, stepped in, and turned on the lights. 

“Holy shhhhh…Joe, you’ve got to see this to believe it. Boxes, piled two stories high! What do you think is in them? Gold? Paintings? Jewels? What do you think?”

“Books,” Joe reminded himself to breath. Greek scrolls. Latin codexes. Illumined hand bound manuscripts. An opened box was neatly stacked with enormous books clasped with silver filagree. Fine rugs were strewn between opened chests of ancient charts and maps. Joe looked at the size of the warehouse extending into the shadows. “And I thought I brought too many trucks to Karsten’s party. Turns out I didn’t bring enough.”

A few steps in from the entrance there was a break in the stacks. Nestled in a nook, two huge padded reclining chairs flanked a Tiffany lamp. In the midst of the treasure trove, someone had created a secret reading room.

Colorful woven runners lined the pathways through case upon case of unknown contents, all branded with a stylized raven. “There must be a few thousand boxes here.”

“More!” Richie rejoiced. “It’s like Indiana Jones. You know, at the end, when they pan out in the government warehouse?”

“Sure, Richie,” Joe agreed, without hearing a single word. He’d just spied another gleaming object in the reading corner. He edged in, as if approaching a wild beast, and ran his fingers over the yellow tinged keys, striking just one note. It pealed throughout the warehouse, the tone bright and pure.

“What’s that, Joe?”

“A well-tempered clavier,” Joe answered distantly. “Old enough to be played by Bach himself.”

“Who owns all this stuff?”

“Originally? The books with the black bird brand are the Corvinas. They were assembled by the Raven King, Matthias Corvinus of Hungary, in the late 1480s. He ascended a shaky throne at the age of fifteen, and carved out an empire.”

“Never heard of him. But somebody owns it now, right?”

Joe shook his head and glanced down at the letter in his hand. He read the four signatures at the bottom of the letter three times. Three of the co-signers were dead. Carter Wellan. Haresh Clay. Don Salzer. “The contents of the shipment herewith shall be delivered to the co-executor of the Salzer estate…” He bundled up the letter and the key and stuffed them back into his coat. No one else needed to see it, and no one but the fourth co-signer would ever believe it. 

Except, perhaps, Damon, who had witnessed Joe’s signature on receipt and delivered it all, lock, stock, and barrel, without a blink.

“Joe? Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down.”

Joe thought sitting down was an excellent idea. It turned out to be quite an excellent chair. “You asked who owns it, Richie. The world owns this library. We’re lucky to see it. It’s just passing through.”

“But who’s in charge of it? Why did they send you a key?”

“Good questions. We’ll have to eventually ask the librarian in charge.” Joe could not speak the real answer banging around his brain. Not me. Not me. Oh, no, not me. I’m not watching over your library, old man, while you tramp around the world.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Richie sounded resigned, not perturbed.

“Go home and get some sleep, Richie. We’ll figure out the rest of it in the morning.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not leaving until they put in the security systems tomorrow. And frankly, I don’t think I could get out of this chair if I tried.” Joe said, closing his eyes.

Richie looked around the shadowed chamber, and shook his head. He turned on the Tiffany lamp, grabbed one of the rugs and draped it over Joe, then went to secure the door and turn off the overhead lights. He found another rug for himself and curled up in the opposite chair.

“Just promise me one thing,” Joe said, eyes still closed.

“Whatever you say, Joe,” Richie promised, without even thinking about it. He’d outgrow that, someday.

“For the sake of all that’s holy, don’t tell Amanda. I want to tell her myself.”

********Somewhere in Kathmandu*********

“You fibbed to me, Adam. Admit it,” Joe accused when Methos finally called back from Kathmandu.

“I elided, perhaps,” Adam rarely admitted anything, and Joe figured that was the best he was going to get.

“Haresh Clay and Carter Wellan didn’t steal the Raven King’s library. You did. They were your wheelmen. They handled the transport and storage. You lifted the library a few burros at a time for years after the fall of the Raven King.”

“His heir-apparent began selling off the best works.” Methos truly sounded sad. “Most of his courtiers didn’t know how to _read_, Joe. He lost interest in the collection.”

“I can’t imagine what could be worrying him, caught between the armies of two Popes and the Sultan.”

“Trust me, he was more interested in lowering taxes on the aristocracy to keep them from tossing him in a pit.” Methos corrected. “It was a simpler time, Joe. Anyway, what are you angry about? We saved the library. And more.”

“You dropped responsibility for that behemoth’s care and safety on me! Without any warning at all!”

“And look what a sound choice I made.”

“What do you mean?”

“Right out of the gate, you’ve already saved the Corvinas from molestation, without even believing they were there. That’s got to be some kind of record, in my books.”

Joe groaned. Conversations like this with Methos needed more beer, but it was only ten in the morning and the minifridge was empty.

“Sometimes, I think I’ve spent half my life saving libraries,” Methos rattled on. “Look at the Watcher archives. Why, I started them from the seed of a tiny codex sitting forgotten on a shelf in a beer temple in Samaria. People are usually happy when I bring them a library, or save one under fire.”

“Everyone?” Joe asked doubtfully.

“Everyone. Well. Except for Alexandria. They caught me trying to save some scrolls, once, and chucked me in the Nile. I was lucky not to get eaten by hippos.”

“And before me, Don Salzer took care of your library?” Joe asked, feeling his resolve being chipped away.

“That was Don’s chair set up in the book nook. He loved to both read and talk, and we had many happy book arguments. He’d want you to have his chair, Joe.”

That was a low sentimental blow, even for Methos. He could be ruthless. 

“Do I have to save the library again, to sit in it?”

“I usually only move it once a decade, and stay longer if it’s safe and dry.”

“Ah.”

“So now we get down to the gist of it, Joe.”

“Right. Well, you know that we’re sitting right on a fault line, here. Tsunamis are a concern. Lahars. Rising damp.”

“Rising damp? You’ve been watching the BBC again, haven’t you?” Methos said with disapproval.

“Tsunamis,” Joe reiterated. “Volcanoes. Earthquakes. Seacouver is a tectonic disaster area waiting to happen. It was keeping me awake at night.”

“Sleeping poorly is one of your regular vices,” Methos accused. “Purely due to noncompliance with your Doctor’s orders.”

“Then, Amanda came back to town.”

“All right, that _is_ alarming.” Methos allowed. “I’d have trouble sleeping, too.”

“So you see my dilemma.”

“Where did you move my library, Joe?”

“I hear Idaho is nice this time of year. Cool. Dry. Hardly any volcanoes.”

“The Yellowstone Caldera isn’t a volcano?” Methos asked pointedly.

“That’s downwind,” Joe temporized.

“Western Idaho, then. That really narrows it down.” Methos held hard to the shreds of his patience. “Joe, I really want to know where you moved my library. Damon won’t tell me a thing without the original paperwork.”

“Not over an open phone line to Kathmandu,” Joe pointed out with unassailable logic. “Come on home, Adam. We’ll sort it out.”

“Home?” Methos was caught by surprise.

“Home. I’ll keep a chair warm for you.”

*******finis*******


End file.
